Hunt
by Solipsisms
Summary: Psychopaths are medically defined by their inability to change, to feel empathy. To love. Molly, however, believes that nothing is set in stone. Moliarty. Johnlock.
1. Bugle

Hey, all, V hither.  
So, I've decided to focus my current writing on this fic, which will hopefully turn out long and well. I know it'll probably die off quickly due to lack of reception, but, I really want to work on this, really want to get some interest going - the relationship between Moriarty and Hooper can be so intrinsic if properly analysed and brought out, methinks. I mean, come on, yo. Come on. Full-brunt psychopaths trying to manifest interest and empathy knowing full well that they can't. Low-minded morticians trying to create and build a personal backbone. But. But. I digress. Rated T for now, soon to be M. Hints of Johnlock will be present, but will mostly focus on Moliarty. This first chapter is set in the future, mind you, so the next bits will come from about 3 years earlier leading up to this chapter and future. Long!fic.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN.

* * *

The dreams always started with the fawn. Tiny, female, still weak on it's thin, splayed legs. Always running, lips drawn back over teeth, milky eyes rolled back into soft craniums to protect them from some odd atrocity. Brown, pale brown, always running. It could hear the noises, so sharp, vivid, almost painful. Smell the cedar and the musk and the blood, so thick.

Oh god, the blood.

Keep your pace, keep it steady, she'd always think. One turn too slow and they'd touch their teeth to her throat, elicit the soft, gurgling bugle, sounding as warm liquid seeped past the jugular of the black-eyed hart. They strip the flesh from her bones, char-white, taste the liquids on ripe tongues.

And they weren't even hunting.

She knew they weren't hunting from the first time the dream invaded her restless sleep. There was panic in the air, the wild god stripping through her subconscious with Bacchus' intent - the hounds, wolves, like maenads. The tiny doe was just a helpless animal caught in the fray, the chaotic red seas churning forest grounds, a victim of a fiendish pack fighting for their dominance.

Fighting for the seat of the fallen leader.

Body barren, limp, castrated by rigor mortis. Always reached right before the dream drew to a close. That final bush, cloven hooves messy, disorganized, cantering past hawthorn, minuscule calves ripping at the the pressure, into an open hollow. The barrier would be crossed, the tall, pine forest, always pictured in a breathing, stifling night, would empty into a field. Tiny, surrounded by bracken, a single circular space of pure grass, gently swaying, luna swirling over head, the porcelain almost pulsating through the thick, engorged heat.

The fawn would halt, the surrounding noise dropped. Maws licked at by ripped tongues, slimy, wet, over yellowed teeth would fade into bramble behind - second importance, she though, to her. Second importance to the hart. No, the thing, the creature so vital, epicentric to the dream now lay radial to the hollow, pinpoint at exact centre, no motion.

Massive, black. Brute, the largest canine of his pack, nestled into a bed of weed. Teeth the size of scimitars, covered with disgruntled patches of plaque, exposed to the lunar light. Eyes, once shining, were coated in black flies and maggots, the orb glaring at the deer even most mortem - staring, snickering, laughing eye, maw below curved into a dead smile, everything caked in dried blood, almost panting at her.

Come, come to me, sweetheart.

The fawn would bleat, voice trembling like her own, glossy little eyes reeling, thin mouth covered in a foamy liquid. The corpse would just lay. Under the soft light of effervescent stars, thin blood coated the grass, dripping from the mouth, the nose, the throat - thick, snotty muscles exposed under bags of drenched fur, so lubricated, clumped, dirt-ridden. Paws splayed out to face the crowd, claw and tooth chipped, raw, happy organs spilled out from a small cut in the abdomen. Black, rotten... Flies, a rasping swarm, breathing, so many flies; bleat little deer, please, call help, help him.

No use.

It almost shrieked at her, eccentric like he had been - no use. The wet smile plastered on it's face, cackling, hound, filthy. Once so admired. Loved. Loved by the fawn, and, loved by her. Dead, loved. Dead. Dead, dead. Dead.

Loved.

It would bleat once more, shaky, cleats trembling, body so small against the burning heat - it was so hot. One step. One step closer to it, to him, to love. One step.

The hoof touched the ground, snarl ripped through the air, oh god, the teeth would sink past the soft skin of its throat. Burns, aches, god, where's the air? Blood like copper would flood the jugular, tongue, bubbling up her lungs and sinews with the sweet smell of panic. Panic, sticky and wet and so, so red. Red like cement, red like black on cement.

Wake up, sweetheart.

Her eyes shot open, the breath coming out in short, quick rasps. She raised a trembling hand to her forehead, wiping the sweat that had beaded there in large droplets away, gasps rattling her small frame. She swallowed once, twice, not quite able to drown that feeling - the terror, the quickened heartbeat, the vivid imagery, out of her chest.

It always ended there, the dream. Every time it crept into her subconscious, collectively teasing her, never letting her remember that it was false until her screams pierced the stagnant air of her flat, until she cried out raw for the dead wolf, for herself, for her fawn. Only then would consolation come and she would descent to grasping at the thin fabric of her nightgown, dry sobs pouring over her until the gasps descended into an uneasy sleep.

It always ended on that painful, horrific note.

It always ended with Molly Hooper's tears.

* * *

Molly awoke the next morning to a familiar sight - her soft, brown eyes fluttered open, the fragile flesh still swollen from the previous night's tantrum, gazing about her flat. Everything seemed to be in place, really. The books rested calmly on their shelves, a small closet of various patterned clothes remained where they had previously been, her drawers were all carefully patted shut. There was no forest, no deer, no pack of wolves. Molly sniffed, a tiny, feminine cough brushing past her lips.

She glanced over, hazy eyes focusing on a tiny oaken bedstand, scattered with various objects - lotions, pills, various disinfectants. The small, chipped alarm clock nestled among the mess read 6:10, 20 minutes before it was supposed to sound. Brushing the thick, pink winter covers from where they had been covering her, Molly winced and stood quietly to get dressed. It was strange, really. The ability to just get up and go through her morning process, not having to worry about the noise, the clatter disrupting... others.

Him.

On the rare nights that he had been there, mumbling under his breath in that sweet purr of a voice, she made no noise. It wasn't because he had requested silence, it's because it had intrigued her, his rumblings. She hadn't wanted to miss a beat. As a mortician, the noise, the intricate little verbal annunciations, the occasional self-focused quirk of a brow that changed the whole demeanour of his small physique was piquing, like the perplexing little notes on a cadaver, scattered intrinsically with only the softest, most subtle hints revealing their presence. After all, one could seldom ask for a diagnosis from a dead patient - their mouths had long outlived their use. What was left to ask was the stretched, immobile shell, so pretty in it's pale glow.

Dressed, a small navy blouse draped by a work jacket and thin perlamutter jean coating her legs, Molly straightened, glancing once more to the clock. 6:23, she had made record time. After all, he wasn't busying her, distracting her - mentioning how her hair would look better a shift to the right, then threatening her life as soon as she dare try and scoot it to his suggested area. He wanted her to look imperfect, he'd said. To ward off the others, the other potential mates she might interest. Molly had rolled her eyes, she remembered with a soft smile, eyes downcast. She'd moved it anyway, and the act of defiance had lead to her having to change not only her hair, but the rest of her wardrobe as well, then lying shredded in a multicoloured array on the floor. Molly chuckled, a faint red tint pressing her cheeks at the memory, and she shifted her smooth, brown hair over her face on instinct. Not that she needed to. Not that anybody was around to see.

He was dead, after all, and she'd assisted in the act, intentionally or not. He, the man who she shouldn't miss. He, the murderer, the manipulator, the psychopath who could never, never share her life, was dead. The man who she'd hated, who'd threatened both friend, family, and eventually, heart, was dead. Molly brought a fragile hand to the fabric of her blouse, softly clutching the dotted black fabric.

And yet, through all of that, this was the greatest pain James Moriarty had caused her.

The alarm went off, 6:30. The insistent, blaring tick pervaded Molly's consciousness, and the girl shuddered, quickly pressing her hand on the aged device to shut the noise off. Pulling a pair of worn, brown leather boots on, Molly strapped a small purse to her side, deciding to head out of flat early today. She released a weary breath, mind unable to withdraw from the fact that, today, the alarm had sounded strange. Different.

As the shuddery, high pitched squeal had touched her ears, the noise had sounded softly like the bleat of a stranded fawn.


	2. Welcomes You

Whoo, the story begins! Cheers to anyone who read and reviewed and those who have added my story to their updates list - it means alot. Alot, alot. Like, it's the only thing keeping me going, mates. As much as I love to work on self motivation, I'm an ENTJ. I'm a selfish creature. I live off of reviews. But, once again, thank you. Truly are wonderful people, and it's only been one chapter!

Also, I want to clarify Molly here, a bit. I dislike it when stories showcase girls falling helplessly in love with complete psychodeviants for no reason. I mean, come on. Humanity has empathy, compassion - psychopaths are the definition of lack-there-of. So in this fic, I'm hoping I can show Molly as a pseudo-Christ, almost, which will in turn give her too heavy a load to bear and a bit of an eye-opener to the world of psychosomatic thought. But, if anyone can truly love a psychopath, it's someone who has been incredibly desensitized to death. GO dark!MOLLY, GO!

* * *

**3 years earlier.**

"Beautiful arteries..."

Molly Hooper smiled gently, running her small fingers down the pale expanse of a cadaver's arm, the skin still warm, freshly dead. The purple veins stood out in stark contrast to the skin, the liquid stable and thick, unmoving and coagulated in the limp form. Pretty, Molly decided, chocolate eyes carefully raking over the still lines, very pretty.

She moved about the white expanse of the morgue, white lab-coat quietly fluttering behind her, a small, silver scalpel in hand. Molly grinned to herself, a tune on her lips, gracefully turning to where the heavy, unclothed body on the table greeted her silently - it was morning, and a good day to come. Everything was going swimmingly, thus far - her coffee order had been mistaken earlier, granting her a free, expensive mochiatto, the weather outside shone with bright sunlight, a rarity for London. Not to mention, twice this morning she had already stopped to stroke the fluffy, cream fur of England's dog population.

The calm was so entrenched within Molly that the girl barely even flinched as the doors she was so used to slowly sliding ajar came crashing open in a mass of anxious noise. Eyes shifting, the meek girl turned, facing the intruders that had so blatantly disrupted her peace.

"Dancing with bodies isn't fetching on a girl, Molly, you should stop that. Oh, and hello."

Molly barely had time to open her mouth, a small gasp gushing past her lips, as a familiar onyx cape fluttered past her, followed by a quieter, shorter duplicate. Black, curled hair, pale cobalt eyes, void expression, followed by a figure of muscular build, short height, and a smooth cut blonde, arabesque crop.

"Sherlock, John, it's, um... a surprise. Good to see you, of course, but..!"

"Molly," The shorter man smiled towards the nervous mortician as she chewed her words, giving a firm, quick shake of his head - a kind and formal gesture the girl had come to appreciate. Whilst the infamous Sherlock Holmes consistently radiated indifference, the shadow he had in John Watson was an empathic breach in the once almost-suffocating tightness the girl had experienced in the presence of the consulting detective. John was pleasant, kind, even if he, too, dissipated as quickly as he came.

Molly stepped to the side, learning over time that, around Sherlock Holmes, it was just better to watch until questioned rather than offer help of any sort. It wasn't that she minded, no, not at all. In fact, it was during these quiet corner-side times, when Molly was best left to her thoughts that she analysed the complex intrusive figures, eyes downcast to avoid the suspicious notion of staring. Mind ticked, noisy, her gears cranking just as she imagined the object of her focus' was - Sherlock, Molly always started with Sherlock, graceful Sherlock. Always poised, starling eyes void of taste or intrigue, staring around with an assertive gaze - dissecting the room, the situation, the intricate tendencies and processes and every individual droplet on paint and dust. Always, always picking everything to the bone and then suckling on the juices.

But, that was why Molly loved him.

When the idea first struck her she had pressed and associated her mundane little feelings to Sherlock's beauty - the thin, elegant cheekbones, the serpentine eyes of a bleating intellectual, the ebony curls that so peacefully resting on his head. Even his gate, long limbs uninterrupted in their course - Sherlock moved like an animal, quietly unaware of his perfect tranquillity of motion. Of course, as Molly passed in her time spent around and near Sherlock she naturally maintained these infatuated initial opinions, but then, she stopped. When Molly looked at Sherlock, it wasn't that he was just pretty any-more, it wasn't his eloquence or his smiles or his laugh. No, that was no longer enough, no longer vital.

There was something new. Something added to the mixture. Something that Molly had trouble admitting, even to herself.

Something like the fact that Sherlock was bleeding, rending on the inside, and Molly loved it.

In the smallest skips, smallest instances of time she could see it, but it was certainly there. While the mask of stone, the mask of inhumane solitude that was perched on Sherlock's face was his natural climate, there was something deeper that so clearly played in the heart he had created for himself. Hatred, obsession, gluttony - but not for humanity. Sherlock hated life, hated the very idea of existence - it was no surprise that his coping mechanism lied in the afterlife, in a desolate area of immobile facts where the thin mask between human and cause was inexistent. Sherlock thrived where death was dominant, feasted on the need for explanation, all the meanwhile avoiding a life of intricate and manipulative crime. In fact, the only thing that seemed to keep Sherlock's entirety on the side of moral right seemed to be the resources he was offered - gadgets, stories, access without restrictions or time spent receiving them. Otherwise, Molly guessed that the man had no inclination to help those individuals with whom he was involved, those he took on and aided through his endless silent calculations. And to her, that was beautiful. To her most intimate centres - she understood him, his love for the soft, cool skin of a human who had outlived their use, offering their body as a source of knowledge rather than voice. However, no matter how hard Molly tried, no matter how often she spoke and touched his frame when the contempt would spill from his cracks, it just seemed that Sherlock didn't understand her. Didn't want her, like he did just one other.

John Watson.

Happy, moralistic, militant. Initially, it was natural that Molly disliked him. Disliked the attention he received, disliked the way Sherlock would look at him with that cold gaze only to have the mask dissipate. Disliked the way that, whenever John was about, Sherlock's back arched that little bit more - protective. Possessive. Coveting of something that wasn't at all what he was. Didn't think like he did.

Didn't bleed like he did.

John was a good man, yes, to be sure. From the first day Molly saw him quietly trailing behind Sherlock with an exaggerated eyebrow arched at his antics, unafraid and undeferred, she predicted his stay. Predicted the fact that, out of all of the individuals in the world, Sherlock Holmes had finally chosen his partner. But, John wasn't gay, he said. Molly knew. Neither was Sherlock, and so they would be partners. But, John liked women, he said. Molly smiled, Sherlock didn't like anybody, and so they would be partners. John didn't seem to know it or understand it, let alone believe it, but as the pair continued their life together, so visually platonic, Molly watched them progress and grow. Saw John's eyes drift to Sherlock's, the grey and green softening at the distant contact. She saw the tender hands on shoulders, the secluded intake of breath, the hidden messages in every small gesture. John loved Sherlock, and Sherlock loved him. After all, the very thing that distanced a sociopath from his psychotic cousin was the ability to love, anxious as it may be, messy and new and strange as it would be.

Molly had just hoped that she could be the one in John's plac-

"Hurry up, would you, Molly?"

Lowered head snapped up from her thought, wide eyes dilating to adjust to the bright light no longer filtered out by her fringe. Molly looked at Sherlock, the man standing across the operating table looking at her pointedly with that ever-present calming, mischievous gaze. Molly shuddered involuntarily, small nose curling briefly at the action, "W.. Wh.. What?"

Behind Sherlock, John frowned determinedly, lower lip jutting out just that fraction more than before. Lively green eyes flashing with a piquant curiosity, the older medic stepped out from behind his friend, arms stiff at his sides in a formal gesture. As John moved to speak Molly noted, but determinedly ignored, the fact that his calloused hand brushed the tips of Sherlock's knuckles as he did so, pale ivory contrasting with the golden hues, "Hold on, Sherlock, you. You didn't ask her anything."

Slender eyebrow arched, onyx against stifling white, "Hm? Didn't I? Pity, I thought I'd said in a clever way, too." A pause. "Molly, could we request to see a certain body? Male, 32, should've been delivered last night, red spotting in the sclera, partial colonic herniation listed as the cause of death, thank you."

Molly frowned, crossing slender arms across the small expanse of her chest, "Sherlock, yesterday's bodies have already been marked for delivery to their respective families, I can't just bend the documents whenever you lik-"

Intake, exhale.

The breath left her lungs as a long, slender hand touched her cheek. Cool fingers, soft texture, the faint smell of chlorine and oranges and, oh god, dancing on the skin. Molly struggled to regulate her breathing as that smooth face, snake, those eyes, deviated on her. Cracked, open, showing the bleeding expanse within, crimson, bright, access granted only to her, to her alone, "Please?"

"Y- Ye- Of course..."

Withdrawn. The touch left as soon as it came. Straightened, orderly, Sherlock looked to John, John looked back, the smallest, gentle smile set on his face like the past moment had never even come into fruition. Molly swallowed, throat constricted and dry. Envy, bitter bile, prickling the sides of her eyes as she watched the quiet exchange, the fond tongueless look that screeched 'I'm still yours, she means nothing' and the 'I know, don't worry' in reply.

Molly turned, moving to the rows of the dead, quiet, leaving the two men behind her in privacy. Small smiled curved on her rosy, plump lips as she touched the cool steel of the boxes, thin fingers gliding and she inhaled the familiar, light decaying smell of a hundred separate cadavers.

She may have lost Sherlock Holmes to John Watson, but emotion had lost Molly to the dead.

* * *

They were going to dinner, the three of them. It was an unusual occurrence, Molly noted - Sherlock rarely dined, and events where Molly was involved came in even rarer. But, as Molly plucked into the seat of the worn London cab, the smell of old drink and human sickness permeating the aged fabrics, she consolidated her presence to the fact John had invited her. He had thanked Molly, as Sherlock never had, in that infamous soft, doctorate tone for her kindness. (Molly saw why Sherlock loved him) In passing conversation John chatted with her, both of them huddled placidly in the mortuary's corner, as Sherlock explored the newly removed cadaver, his skin yellowed with ill. Molly laughed, John grinned, toothily requested the solemn mortician go out with them for a bite. Molly was on break, she had no reason to refuse.

The cab pulled to a halt.

Molly stepped out, London frost nipping the tip of her nose into redness almost instantly. She sniffed, slim hands reaching to pull the amber trenchcoat further up her neck, faux fur shielding the blow to a certain extent. Molly had vouched to return home for a minute before joining her two mates, electing to rinse herself of the scent of rigour mortis, however the endeavour had ended in winter storm. Whilst previously the darkened cloud had hovered quaintly in the distance, over a ten minute period the gale came on full force. The restaurant was still a block off, and the snarl of wind and small whispers of sleet clawed at her loosening material, like aerial combat between bat and moth.

The door whipped open as Molly stepped into the small, dimly lit tavern, an after-effect of the harsh winds. A quiet, satiated sigh escaped the girl's lips as the dank warmth touched her body, slowly and methodically draining the cold that had seeped into her bones.

Signalling a small wave to the waiter, a short and tubby man, Molly made her way past, low heels clicking against the tavern floor. The knit, cubical area was humming with activity, she noted, the common smell of cigarette smoke and cheap liqueur hanging in the air. Tables littered the enclosed area, most of them filled with downcast bystanders, their eyes languidly focused on a television screen hanging high above, droning some odd football match. None of the members of this crowd were the ones Molly was looking for, so she turned her head towards the booths, auburn hair bouncing ever so slightly, taking a step forward.

Pause.

Snip, shiver, break; stay put, Molly Hooper, sharp intake of breath. Bite your tongue.

The booth was enclosed, the residents only visible to an individual in exuberantly close proximity. Sherlock was touching John's cheek, his fingers right there, right past his ear, face inclined, eyelashes cast halfway down, glazed look - god, was he going to, god. Sheepish wet mouth, John's face was tilted up, apprehensive, trusting, god he looked so _needing_. Molly felt something tense, something hiss inside of her chest - angry, malfunctioning. Those two, they were just friends, they were just-

Crack, exhale.

Lips touched lips, and then Sherlock was kissing John, and John was kissing Sherlock, and their eyes were closed and god, god, their first one. Poor, pale Molly Hooper stood not two metres back and she was seeing it, weak knees failing, and seeing their lips move so slowly it hurt and the way Sherlock cast himself over the booth table's edge - uncomfortable, biting into his hip, it must hurt, he must want this.

Molly breathed, the air constricting her jugular and painful, burning - this wasn't oxygen, it was cyanide, only logical explanation and this was all a post-mortem hallucination. The snow had sucked her soul from her and Molly was in hell, Molly couldn't have Sherlock because Sherlock was alive and not here and not kissing John.

The two parted quickly as they had come, and only solitary Molly Hooper had really seemed to notice them at all. Molly couldn't register her body, couldn't register the choice, the rejection. Sherlock withdrew to a his place, slender hands folded under the familiar chin, the tiniest smile playing on his (ever so slightly swollen) lips, eyes relaxed, soft, caring - those eyes were hers. John was still perched at table's edge, heavy pupils clearly dilated, staring, wondering, pondering, staring at his partner. Sherlock said something, Molly couldn't hear what - what was this buzzing, this goddamn buzzing? Her head was full of insects. But John laughed, and gingerly leaned back into his seat and everything, everything was fine and normal.

Molly hiccuped, her chest seeping with unknown liquid. One foot before the other, don't fall, the girl stepped forward, one, two, one, two. A minuscule fake smiled printed on her face, so pretty, as she gave a faint hullo. That was normal, that was good. Nothing had happened here and certainly not something that Molly had seen - John looked up, militant face alert, eyebrows raised. He took in Molly, and within a fraction of a second a grin was on his face, so warm and calm and soothing, a welcome - he didn't know that she had seen, "Molly, brilliant. Come, sit, I saved a menu for you."

Sherlock turned around and looked, his happiness repressed, his mouth set in an immobile frown - expression hardened, vacant. Those silver eyes looking right at Molly, right through Molly. She smiled, swallowing the bitter, cold greeting, giving a little wave. The mortician made her way forward, carefully situating herself beside John. As expected, the army doctor grinned fondly, passing her an antiquated menu and quickly opening a discussion on the current case at hand. Molly bit back the dead feeling in her brain and sinews, she joined in.

Sherlock turned his cheek and looked away into the storm.

* * *

Molly had left the tavern in a rush, running out to greet the new evening setting in quietly over white London. John had protested, naturally, using the worsening sting of the weather as an excuse for the girl's stable presence, but through the weak and heartless defence it was quite clear to Molly that she wasn't his priority of the evening. Besides, she'd mumbled, pressing a hand to her alcohol-flushed cheek, her break was to be over in a half hour, and she mustn't be late. And so, a slightly tipsy Molly Hooper had waved goodbye, exiting to the view of John's warm wave and the inky black of Sherlock's curled tresses before greeting a flurry of frozen liquid to the body.

Wrapping her coat tightly around her small, elegant form, Molly avoided lifting her hand to call a cab. Something about the past hour and a half, about the meagre mentions of yet another case solved by the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, about seeing _the event_ left the medical worker more than eager for the sting of frost on her cheeks.

Hail hurt, hail didn't feel, hail bit.

Molly liked hail for the same reason she loved Sherlock, hail raged on with no regard for anyone and left no individual exempt from it's touch. Hail was like Sherlock Holmes, hail was like-

Molly stopped her thoughts, involuntarily biting the ripe tip of her tongue into blood. Warm and soft and sweet, the liquid seeped into her mouth and Molly winced, spitting a feeble red mass onto the pavement of a white-washed Westminster street. The alcohol was getting to her, she reasoned, the alcohol was reminding her of _him_, forming his image and projecting _him_, if only because she had seen Sherlock willingly kiss a man today. Because her mentality wanted revenge, though her body did not, Molly's mind wanted defiance, and he, well.

_He_ was certainly the picture of defiance.

The visualized irony and proof hung above her head on a neon television, the massive, skylit newsboard announcing his whereabouts as a travelling criminal, high risk - James Moriarty Spotted In Kent, the headline read.

The picture that accompanied the mass of white BBC-type text was shot profile and showed a man's rather sinister looking face, tilted downwards - one Molly knew well - small, elegant nose, cheeks whose skin stretched out too strong over the bony mass he was given, a small, firm mouth. But the main feature of the man, the one that captivated those who knew him, that had once ensnared Molly with their depth was the certain focal point of the screen. Massive, black eyes, no pupil visible within the murky iris, not even on close inspection, a hound, a wolf.

Dark, dark, dark. Obsidian, just like everything about James Moriarty.

Molly stopped, her face cast upwards, tiny hands pressed to the warm breath that flew past her lips, cherishing the heat. She had known that man, once, although never as James Moriarty. Jim from IT, yes, Jim the coffee-mate, Jim the first kiss. But never James Moriarty. Molly smiled lightly, a giggle bubbling through her frost-bitten lips. It was selfish of her to reminisce on this, on him, on a serial murderer, but the alcohol that pulsed steadily through Molly's frost bitten body advised her leverage and told her otherwise.

James Moriarty really wasn't that different from Jim from IT, when she thought about it. Molly could see both, hear both, despite meeting either figure thrice or less - read their hearts as well as she had once tried to read Sherlocks'. James Moriarty's eyes spoke of a lust for the different, an amorous relationship with the poisons of human souls was implanted in his very corneas. In the wide, anxious gazes he had cast into windows, in the charming lull of a voice he purred so softly - no matter what accommodating mask the deviated psychopath would have placed on his face, Molly could always see, always read his innermost workings in a clear light. After all, she was an empath, she read the inside rather than the surface, she searched rather than psychoanalysed.

She wasn't Sherlock Holmes or James Moriarty, no, Molly Hooper read bodies.

It was her profession, after all. Molly giggled at the thought, the action gaining her more than a few unadmiring gazes from the innumerable passer-bys brushing past her, most likely questioning as to why a meek, deer-like London girl was smiling into the overhead image of a serial killer. Molly blushed, warm blood straining to reach the cool surface of her cheeks. Her chocolate eyes lowered quickly, away from the paralysing gaze of the simple image dangling not so high before her, nestling themselves just above the level of her thick woven scarf. She wasn't to think of James, no, he was a bad man, a criminal. And who was Molly but a public servant who had once, just once, had an interest in him that could've rivalled the one she felt for Sherlock (something about a healing complex, she was a strange girl). An interest that was cast aside for her love of the side of moral good - sociopaths could be healed, tamed, loved, and so Molly persisted.

As far as she knew, psychopaths could not.

"Bye Jim," Molly muttered under her breath, taking one last fleeting glance at the screen above her head. Adjusting her redbrown coat, the girl lowered her eyes, a quiet upward turn in her lips, heart docile, calmer.

Placid.

Really, quite the opposite effect that a viewing of Moriarty, seeing her love interest snogging another man, and exposure to the hissing edge of the weather should have.

Whispy chuckle, hot fog bubbling from lungs. Heels snapped sharply as Molly turned towards the direction of Bart's, dark shoes clicking softly against a hard pavement beneath the new London snow, the noise gradually losing distinction in the soft hum of water and rush-hour cars.

Fading.

Fading.

Gone.


End file.
